


Tent

by Antosha



Series: Burrowing [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Het, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23748166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antosha/pseuds/Antosha
Summary: "Daphne pulls Anthony into their tent by the lapels of his dress robes. His parents loaned it to them for the weekend, no doubt thinking that a two-bedroom tent would come in handy. Well, perhaps it will...." (After Ron and Luna's wedding--takes place at the same time as How, Four Weddings & a Funeral, chapter 6.)
Relationships: Anthony Goldstein/Daphne Greengrass
Series: Burrowing [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708984
Kudos: 4





	Tent

_11 August, 2003_

  
Daphne pulls Anthony into their tent by the lapels of his dress robes. His parents loaned it to them for the weekend, no doubt thinking that a two-bedroom tent would come in handy. Well, perhaps it will, Daphne muses, pushing up against the younger Goldstein and greeting his wonderfully talented tongue with her own. One room tonight, another tomorrow. There's always the kitchen. She shudders, imagining just what naughty things Anthony will be able to do to her on the kitchen table.  
  
"Damn, Daph," Anthony says when they both finally come up for air, "you're full of surprises today! When you sang today at the wedding, for example... I didn't know you could sing like that. It was amazing, love!"  
  
"You know, Goldstein," she murmurs, highly pleased at his praise, "don't think flattery is all it takes to get into my knickers."  
  
"Oh?" he asks, those dark, intelligent eyes glittering, knowing she's playing with him, loving the play. "What will it take, I wonder? Rubbing up against you for a couple of hours on the dance floor should have been fairly effective."  
  
"Don't flatter yourself," she says, putting on her best Slytherin Bitch Queen sneer. It's a fake, though, and they both know it. The feel of his body against hers had her close to screaming for most of the evening.  
  
He leans into her, and the sweaty smell of him tinged with the scent of the ganj that he and Terry and Weasley’s brother Charlie snuck off and smoked behind the house makes her head swim. Anthony’s lips capture hers and she shivers at his touch.  
  
So much for the Bitch Queen. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”  
  
The wonderful thing about Anthony—one of a number of wonderful things about Anthony—is that he’s not a tit shark. When he kisses her, makes love to her, her bosoms get their fair share of attention, but she never feels as if her tits are having fun and she’s merely along for the ride. The only other boyfriend she’s had that treated her like anything other than a brassiere with attachments was Harry. And Harry had barely seemed aware of his own body during sixth year, let alone hers.  
  
The image of Harry and Ginny dancing tonight—dancing a few years back at _their_ wedding—flashes through her mind: the ease, the matching smiles, the constant touch. Knowing the two of them as well as she does, Daphne is sure the sex is _fantastic_ , and part of her envies them, off boffing like bunnies somewhere.  
  
But she has Anthony and no one else does, and that makes her very happy indeed. She can feel his erection against her belly, and grins, thinking of that thick flesh in her mouth, in her cunt. “You know,” she mutters into his ear as she grasps it through his trousers, “we have a tent already. Another seems redundant.”  
  
Ravenclaw though he is, even Anthony can’t manage witty when his cock is being squeezed. He grunts and begins to pull her towards their first bedroom.  
  
Daphne maintains her grip on his cock. “I saw you watching the little Delacour girl and that cousin of the Weasleys, Anthony. Did it turn you on to watch two pretty girls sneak off into shadows and kiss? Did it make you hard?”  
  
He’s fumbling with the hooks to her robes; fine, Daphne thinks, and begins yanking on the buttons of his trousers. “Who would you like to see me kiss, Anthony? Ginny? Hannah Abbott with her cute little pigtails? Lovegood in her wedding gown?” His cock springs free, and he hisses as she grasps it tightly. “Would you like to see me with my head under those white robes? I helped her take all of her hair off down there, you know.”  
  
That, apparently, is all that Anthony can take. He pushes Daphne back onto the bed, pulls the top of her robes down, baring her breasts, and throws the skirts up over her hips. His shirt and robes still on, his trousers around his ankles, he pulls her red silk pants to one side and thrusts into her. They both scream.  
  
Every one of the Slytherin girls in Daphne’s year lost her virginity to pencil-dicked Draco Malfoy, the prat, even poor Millicent, who had been desperately in love with Greg but hadn’t felt she could say no to the self-proclaimed alpha male. He’d even buggered all of the boys, not that anyone could think he was a poof, oh _no_ , not Draco! He’d just wanted to make sure everyone knew who was on top. It had been one of the sweetest things about the mass defection sixth year—Millie punching the prat in the face and all of them, even Theo and Blaise, telling him what a lousy fuck he was. Poor Pansy, the one who stayed… She’d paid for that insult to his pride, right up until his death.  
  
Perhaps if they hadn’t—perhaps if they’d just quietly switched allegiances—he might not have gone so rotten. Perhaps Granger would still be alive. Probably not.  
  
Anthony, though... Anthony fills her, and it isn’t just that she can actually feel his cock inside of her. When they fuck, whether it’s manic and screaming, like this, or quiet and gentle, like this morning, Daphne _feels_ things, frightening, wonderful wordless things that make her think that this whole being alive thing really does have its merits. When she and Susan have coffee—Susan, who was too fucking morose to make it to the wedding, really, the girl needed to be slapped—Susan loves to ask about how Daphne _feels_ about Anthony, and she uses words like _love_ and _trust_ and Daphne hates it, hates all of these scary labels and she’s constantly telling Susan to blow her feelings out of her arse, and Susan always laughs.  
  
But Daphne knows it’s a fake, this façade, just like the Bitch Queen persona she learned from Pansy. She knows that Anthony makes _something_ happen inside of her, inside the _camera obscura_ of her soul, and she’s terrified of that, and terrified of what may or may not bubble inside of him, but she wants it, lives for it, howls for it, even as she is howls for the wide pressure of him inside of her, the drag of his pubic bone across her clit as they fuck, his teeth on her nipples....  
  
She gasps for breath, coming down off of the first of what promises to be many orgasms this evening.  
  
He slows, trying to prolong his own pleasure and hers. Leans forward and pants in her ear, “Who do you want to see _me_ kiss, Daph? Harry? Justin? Should newlywed Ron and I suck each other dry for you? Who do you want me to kiss?”  
  
That _something_ boils up again, and she grasps his face in her hands, there in their two-bedroom tent, among a few dozen others on the edge of the Weasley’s property—Merlin, the fucking that must be going on tonight! Looking up into his black-on-black eyes, she sobs, “Me, you bugger. I want to see you kiss me.”


End file.
